


No man is poor who is loved

by The_Emotional_Robot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Family, Greg is Sweet, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Mycroft is a good uncle, Protective Greg, Romantic Fluff, Uncle Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28336737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Emotional_Robot/pseuds/The_Emotional_Robot
Summary: It's Christmas time and although the year hasn't been easy, it's the time when you tell those you love that you appreciate and value them.Or the time when Greg walks in on Mycroft having his annual cathartic cry to It's A Wonderful Life and they get the appreciation they deserve.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 8
Kudos: 109
Collections: 12 Days of Mystrade and Friends, Mystrade Holiday 2020





	No man is poor who is loved

**Author's Note:**

> TW - mentioned suicide and canonical death. It's based on It's A Wonderful Life so please base your response to the film. COVID-19 mentioned.
> 
> I would also like to say a massive thank you to the organisers of this challenge - they have done a stellar job!
> 
> I know this year has been brutal but look after yourselves and do what makes you feel good - even if it is a cathartic cry. Merry Christmas and a Happier New Year!

Tesco’s had been manic. Always is at this time of year but… well… with _everything going on_ – it had been a thousand times worse.

_This time last week I was having a drink with John… and the ‘substantial’ plate of nachos had been alright n’all._

As it was, Greg was now rushing across Central London wrapped up against the onslaught of rain (never snow is it?) bedecked in his Gunners mask (a Christmas pressie from Sally), hauling a pack of loo roll and a crate of beer. Desperate Boxing Day top ups that couldn’t be managed without.

When he finally got to Mycroft’s front door, the Christmas tune came to his head. ‘As lovely as your own front door’ whistled on his lips.

He had been unsure about moving in with Mycroft back in January. Although Mycroft had been thawed by Eurus and its aftermaths, as well as the unconditional affection of Rosie; Mycroft was well still Mycroft. Anti-social by choice half the time, and prickly the rest.

Moving in after their stumbled courtship (where Greg had done his best to support Mycroft as he attempted to heal and deal with what was essentially a lifetime of unacknowledged trauma) had seemed to some extent a little hasty and the madness of a man in the midst of a midlife crisis.

But he loved Myc. Thought he was bloody amazing and fit with that leggy, posh act – and well neither of them was getting any younger, were they?

And the first few months they worked on settling into a routine, had the usual arguments about space, personal time, and the general work of fitting two lives together.

And then ole ‘rona hit didn’t it? And frankly if you can survive working from home, toilet roll shortages, and the shit show that were the daily briefings then you were probably pretty solid.

So here he found himself. At Myc’s door with 18 tinnies after a lovely Christmas of telly specials, crooners and choirs filling the halls, and far too much food and drink for two people.

It had been just the two of them. With everything, the girls had stayed in the Midlands with their chaps and mates. In turn, Sherlock, John, and Rosie had bubbled with Mrs Hudson meaning they were probably having a wild time and playing with LOL surprise balls which he and Myc regularly had to sit through Zoom lectures about. Thinking about it Rosie was probably spending far too much time with Sherlock…

It was nice though just the two of them – relaxed and cosy- something Greg had never had. They were just content – happy.

Or that’s what Greg had thought until he walked through the door and saw a teary eyed Mycroft on the settee – silent tears and all.

He hated silent tears- couldn’t help think of Katie at 12 explaining why she hadn’t been going to school for months because of the other kids. Or victims who got used to not having someone listen. Or 2 Holmes 12 years apart when it had all been a little too much.

Dropping everything, ripping off his coat, mask, and scarf- he moved quickly into the room and sat next to Myc squeezing his hand in a rush.

He regretted it when his partner jumped at the unexpected touch. Apologetically stroking his hand, cursing himself internally, Greg softly said,

‘You alright sweetheart?’

Calmer and with a wry smile playing across his tear marked cheeks, Mycroft nodded towards the TV that only now Greg realised was on. Greg couldn’t help but muse that 2 years ago the fact Mycroft was his only focus in the room would have worried him, now he embraced how far gone he was.

As Greg reviewed the difference, a few years can make, Mycroft started to explain,

‘Just my little festive tradition. George Bailey and a good cathartic cry. I can’t help but identify with James Stewart’s character. The intention I am sure. Spend my whole year ignoring my wants and needs for my country and family. And then have a sympathetic weep, having drunk half a bottle of port on my own. Amrit would probably have a few words to say about that I’m sure but well…’

Amrit was his counsellor. An Asian woman with a thick Bradford accent, she had apparently told Mycroft on his first session that he would lead. After one hour of complete silence followed by a stuttered apology from Mycroft which had been waived off with ‘you lead, I listen. And anyway love, I’m paid regardless’, had reassured Mycroft to book a follow up session. Two years later it was still working well.

Greg mulled over what Mycroft had just said. Thinking about the hellish year and the pressures that Mycroft still felt to be perfect. The life he had lived trying to be. Greg found himself tentatively replying,

‘Yeah sweetheart that’s not entirely healthy and Amrit would be having kittens but gotta ask is there anything in particular this year that’s got you to this?’

Mycroft tilted his head and pursed his lips watching George Bailey on screen sat at a grave arguing with the angel as the perfect sod realised he might likely have changed the course of a world war for something he did at 10. Then with a soft laugh and an affectionate glance at Greg, he said,

‘Well dear if I can’t tell you my ridiculous foibles and arrogance in comparing myself with such a model of humanity’, Greg went to interrupt but was waived off gently. ‘Don’t worry dear, I am unlikely to run across town to a bridge. It is different things at different times. When I was younger it was the ice scene or the druggist and the shame I felt at not saving the Trevor boy although that sometimes rears its head. At 21, the college story when I ended up in the Civil Service on Uncle Rudy’s death when another career appealed. Later the lover’s scenes when I stayed to help Sherlock rather than following a love across the world. Different things hit at different times and I am afraid to say it is only when I start blubbing that I realise what has wounded me this year. The English, posh, and public school boy I am.’

As he had said this, Mycroft had curled closer into him. Greg couldn’t help but think as he listened that Mycroft had certainly grown into himself over the last few years. 5 years ago, Mycroft would have chosen to have his teeth pulled over this conversation. Bloody hell, 1 year ago he would have seriously considered his options.

‘What’s got you tonight then?’

‘Hmm. The children – Zuzu and her petals in particular. All I can think of is how I much I have missed.’

Ah, Greg thought. This is a Rosie thing.

Mycroft and Rosie had struck up a close relationship. Following Sherringford, Sherlock and John had taken to visiting him weekly and bringing Rosie along to have something safe to talk about. Hard to be bitter when you have a giggling child playing on the carpet. Rosie had taken to him with a great deal of affection, thinking Mycroft the bee’s knees. In turn Mycroft, who had his only near healthy childhood family relationship be with Rudy, had fell into the Uncle role with ease.

Since then, Mycroft would have her every Friday and on case nights if Mrs Hudson or Molly were busy. He taught her to bake, play piano, speak 3 languages, and cheat at poker. She in turn insisted Uncle Mycroft came to every family event, party, or school play mending Mycroft’s other family relationships as well as the could be along the way.

Mycroft had even turned 2 rooms over to her in his house – the first person to breach the castle walls as John had joked. One a pink and yellow bedroom. The other a jungle themed playroom complete with low monkey bars. Sherlock and John had been terrified on seeing them, but Rosie loved them. More importantly she loved her Uncle Mycroft and he her.

And now they were 5 miles away but may as well be at the other end of the world.

Mycroft hadn’t finished though. Delicately, eyes firmly facing forward, he stuttered,

‘I also worry … that by the time we return… to well… normal … she will find me … well… boring, cold, and difficult.’

Greg winced. All things shouted at him by a relative over the years. But Greg didn’t need to even consider his answer,

‘Nah she won’t. She adores you. You’re the only one she wants to spend anytime with when you’re together. Follows you round like a lost lamb.’

‘Sherlock was like that. Eurus. Now look. I fear I have missed when I will be wanted. Just seen as a thorn in the side- who invited dull, boring, dependable Mycroft?’.

‘She won’t Mycroft.’ Greg sad forcefully and confidently. ‘God you message everyday – she called you yesterday to bake mince pies on Christmas Day with you. You are still the only one she trusts on her algebra and maths home schooling.’ And hadn’t that been devastating for Sherlock?

‘I mean come on! John is still pissed off she had the only Zoom link for the nativity sent to your email and not his!’

Mycroft blushed – something that would definitely not have happened a few years ago – and guiltily retorted,

‘Well I did help her learn her lines! And she was wonderful, wasn’t she?’.

Then kissing Greg gently on the cheek and curling completely into Greg’s side who wrapped his arm around him, Mycroft smiled coyly up and said with a smile in his voice,

‘Do you know I often think George Bailey’s problems are exasperated by his refusal to ask for help. If he had told Mary when she asked in the kitchen, or Mr Martini, or anyone he would have been better off. He had a whole town wanting to help him for Christ’s Sake! And he needed the Lord to send him an angel to help. And then it ends up, that while he has been having his existential crisis, Mary has managed to rally the whole town, bring Harry back from New York in a blizzard, and wired a man at a party in London!’

Greg had no idea where he was going with this but couldn’t help but agree.

‘I am just trying to say’, Mycroft continued. ‘That Mary always provides good advice, feels when George needs her help, and puts things into perspective. An uncommonly rare talent and skill. Thank you for being like Mary – you always help me to fix things and work them through. And I value it deeply. And I want you to know I feel very rich indeed curled up next to you.’

Greg felt himself tearing up now. After all it had not been easy the last few years with the divorce, Reichenbach and the fall out, Mary’s death, and of course Sherringford. There had been good times, but he had not always been valued. But Mycroft had made him feel like a precious jewel and that was not only this evening.

Kissing Mycroft’s head gently, Greg instead said,

‘Well we are both rich aren’t we, sweetheart?’.


End file.
